


what had not yet ever been

by thedevilchicken



Category: 2 Fast 2 Furious (2003), Fast and the Furious Series, The Fast and the Furious (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: The first thing you need to know about Brian is his name isn't Brian O'Conner.





	what had not yet ever been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arysteia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/gifts).



> Canon-divergent AU set sometime after _2 Fast 2 Furious_ ; Dom and Brian meet in Miami. Based on arysteia's idea: _When Hobbs says in Fast Five that Brian has been in “deep cover” for five years, let’s pretend that’s not just a lazy handwave and/or a continuity error_.

The first thing you need to know about Brian is his name isn't Brian O'Conner.

Okay, sure, so his name is technically Brian O'Conner. Legally speaking, it's Brian O'Conner. If you asked the people he grew up with out west in Barstow, he's pretty sure that's what they'd tell you. If you asked his boss, any of his bosses from any of his jobs past or present, that's what you'd get. That's the name you'd find by the lame photo with the boyband hair that's in his high school yearbook. It's on his driver's license, like his license means a whole lot these days, considering. _Technically_ , his name is Brian O'Conner. But, for a really long time now, Brian's felt kinda like _Brian O'Conner_ is just some kind of a part he's been playing. He's felt like it's just another alias he uses. When he sees his name printed on his mail, when he says it to people to introduce himself, when he hears it said out loud, it doesn't feel real. To be totally honest, he can't remember for sure the last time it didn't feel like that.

"So, who are you really?" Dom asks, almost casual about it, like that's something he can explain in ten words or less and not the goddamn sixty-four thousand dollar question he's been asking himself for years. Brian wishes there were an easy explanation, like a badge he could clip to his belt or carry in a pocket just over his chest that would make it all make sense without having to put it into words, but his handler has his badge and anyway, flashing that shit right now would just raise more questions than it'd answer.

"I don't know," Brian says, because it actually feels true, however dumb he knows it sounds. "Why don't you tell me?"

Dom looks at him. Dom narrows his eyes at him, assessing him like he would if he'd just popped Brian's hood like he would a car's and peered inside.

 _Why don't you tell me?_ he said. The crazy thing is, right now, he kinda thinks maybe Dom can.

\---

The first time they met after the train tracks and the fucking _train_ , Dom's dad's Charger lying wrecked in the street and the bullshit with the keys to Brian's borrowed Supra, was sixteen months later, not that Brian was counting. They were both in Miami and Brian was still pretending to be Brian O'Conner. It's been three weeks now since then. They're still in Miami; honestly, he'd thought Dom would've cut and run by now.

He really wishes he could say he'd been too damn busy to give Dom much thought in the meantime of those sixteen months, considering how many miles and how many races there'd been between California and Florida, LA and Miami, where Brian had been when they'd met and where he was by then. Maybe he could've even convinced himself if he'd tried a little harder, but the fact was he'd woken up in a series of crappy motels strung right across the country, slept on shitty beat-up beds that'd made his back ache the way three hundred miles non-stop in the driver's seat of a ten second car never had, he'd peered at himself in the mirror under flickering lights the next morning, and he'd thought about what he'd done. He'd never tried to convince himself, at least not really, not in any more than passing way. He'd thought about Dom on and off and off and on the whole damn time, like an itch in the back of his head that he just couldn't get rid of. And then, there Dom was.

It was a few months after the thing with Verone and the FBI and Customs and all of that crap. Rome had used most of the cash they'd gotten from Verone and opened up a garage kinda stupidly close to Tej's place so they were always in each other's pockets and it was even doing pretty well; Brian worked there sometimes, moonlighted at Tej's place sometimes, raced sometimes, rented an apartment in a real, actual not-shitty neighborhood that almost overlooked the bay if you squinted, a place he couldn't even close to afford on his bodyshop pay but what the hell, it wasn't like the IRS was going to come beating down his door at any moment. His handler took care of that shit - why they hadn't thrown his stupid ass out of the service after what'd happened in LA he had _no_ idea, but there it was, he was at least moderately protected - and whatever, it looked good, it looked like he was doing pretty well for himself. It looked like his race wins counted for something, either that or he had another line on the side and either way, that looked good from the outside. It looked good for Brian O'Conner's reputation.

It wasn't Dom that contacted him about the job, but Dom wasn't even in the picture then so Brian guesses it would've been a hell of a surprise if it had been. It was a guy named Jameson who wanted drivers, real ones, fast ones, _precision_ ones, to work some kind of a truck hijacking - big money, he said, dangerous, but maybe by then it even sounded like danger was more pro than con where Brian O'Conner's job prospects was concerned. He guesses in a way it was, given his line of work, given the things he's done and the cars he drives and the cars he's stolen, not that that sounded like a resounding endorsement of his general good character, but over the years he's learned not to care too much about that because Brian O'Conner is only half the way him.

Jameson swung by before a race one night and put it to him in the abstract just like guys like that always seemed to, a convoluted conversation of hypotheticals while they stood by Brian's car. And Brian was all set to say no, he had bigger fish to fry or at least he wasn't going to say yes to some shady deal he had no details on, because he had a couple of chats like that every week. But then Jameson smiled like he knew something Brian didn't, something interesting that Brian might actually want to know.

"We've got a guy on board you might be interested to work with," Jameson said, looking kinda like the cat that got the cream.

"Yeah?" Brian replied, and he buffed out an imaginary scratch in his Skyline's paintwork, trying not to sound like his interest was piqued even though they both clearly knew it was. "Who might that be?"

Jameson's smile widened. "I guess you'll just have to come along to the meet and find out," he said.

It was a shitty tactic, but Brian let it work. After all, it gave him an out as well as an in; if it turned out he hated whoever the guy turned out to be, or even if he didn't, he could use it as a pretty convincing excuse to bail if he needed to. It seemed reasonable and not totally against his orders so the next night, he drove out to the warehouse he'd been directed to, his perfectly legal firearm tucked into his glove box. Jameson rolled up the door for him when he got there and he pulled inside from tarmac onto the concrete floor. And there, leaning against the hood of a souped-up electric blue Supra with his arms crossed over his chest like illicit meetings after dark and the fact he was in the US at all were just no big deal, was Dominic Toretto. Brian guessed he had to admit Jameson'd been right: he was interested.

"Dom," he said, kind of a greeting or maybe just an acknowledgement as he stepped out of his car and pushed the door closed with a bang.

Dom nodded faintly in his general direction. "Brian," he replied, coolly, and Brian leaned back against the driver's side door of his Skyline, feeling anything but cool as Dom looked at him from just a few feet away across the warehouse floor.

"I heard you were in Mexico," Brian said.

"Maybe I was," Dom replied.

"This is _not_ Mexico, Dom."

"Well, I never said I was there right now."

Brian guessed that was true, at least. Jesus, the guy was as exasperating as ever.

Two more guys turned up in pretty short order, one apparently pulled in from out of state and the other Brian had seen hanging around Tej's place from time to time, always on the look-out for a payday so he guessed that made sense. The woman in the short skirt who got out of Jameson's car, all legs and pointy heels, didn't introduce herself and none of them asked her who she was - unwritten rules of the game, Brian guessed, you just don't ask the lady in the shoes that cost more than your car who the hell she is. She didn't say her name but she told them what the job was and Brian tried not to look at Dom the whole damn time she was talking, told himself to focus on her, how she kinda reminded him of Fuentes just in the way she stood and the tone of her voice, so maybe it'd turn out she was Customs or DEA or ATF or some other goddamn TLA and at some point he'd find out this was all another agency's op he was getting himself mixed up in. Problem was, he could still see Dom out of the corner of his eye even when he looked right at her. Problem was, even if he needed twenty-four hours to call in some info and work this shit out, even if there were risks to his cover, he couldn't say no and let them move down the list. Not with Dom there. He wasn't about to let Dom step right into some kind of a sting with no backup. He hadn't fucked things up with the LAPD just to let him get away for it to come to that. No way.

The plan was a heist: stick up a truck on its way into the city, toss the drivers, take the truck. The pay was good and the cars were provided and all they had to do was follow the plan, in and out, job done. It seemed simple. It seemed pretty much too good to be true.

"Are you in?" the woman asked.

The two other guys said yes right off the bat, just like Brian had expected. Dom said _sure, why the hell not_. Brian nodded, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, aggressively calm. And that was that.

Jameson and the woman left first in Jameson's car, turning off the warehouse lights as they went; Francis and Cortez, the other two guys though Brian was pretty sure either those names were aliases or they were a pair of fucking idiots, followed not too far behind. Brian leaned into his Skyline and turned on the headlamps to light the place back up and he looked at Dom in the weird half-light. Dom looked right back at Brian, his jaw set.

"So, are we gonna talk?" Brian asked.

"What do you want to talk about, Brian?" Dom replied.

"Where've you been the last year and a half?"

"Mexico. You said it yourself."

"Why the hell are you back?"

"A man's gotta eat."

"That's bullshit."

Dom tilted his head. "You'd know all about bullshit," he said. "Right, Officer?"

Brian frowned. He ran his hands over his hair, cut shorter then than it'd been back when they'd met, tugging hard at the ends of it as he looked at Dom. Dom didn't look different at all, not that he'd really expected him to but jeez, considering he was a fugitive, he hadn't even tried. He was standing there in a damn muscle shirt with a cross on a chain hanging round his neck and he hadn't even let his hair grow, it was still buzzed short. It was like looking back in time.

"I'm not a cop anymore, Dom," Brian said, leaning back heavily against the side panel of his car. "The LAPD threw me out. Big surprise, right?"

Dom shrugged. "You want me to feel sorry for that?" he asked, raising his brows. "You want me to feel sorry for _you_? You want me to feel _grateful_?"

Brian scowled. He rubbed his face and he shook his head. Honestly, he knows he had no idea what he wanted from Dom at that precise moment. He'd rehearsed meeting Dom again in his head a hundred times, talking to himself in the front seat of his car while he drove, in front of the mirror while he brushed his teeth in the morning, in bed last thing at night before he managed to drift off to sleep. It'd always gone a whole lot better or a whole lot worse than this when he'd thought about it; in his head they'd fought, they'd had a punch-up in Rome's bodyshop, got into it before a race or maybe after one or maybe both, yelled at each other like total goddamn idiots back someplace in LA, out front of the market, Dom's workshop, maybe one of them or both would grab a wrench and _really_ go for it. Probably Dom 'cause Brian was pretty sure he deserved it, at least sometimes, except then again it wasn't exactly like Dom was innocent, either.

He'd always thought Dom would be pissed at him for what had happened, or maybe he'd've gotten over that stage and have maybe felt a little pleased that Brian'd let him go and not gotten him sent right on back to Lompoc. Those sixteen months since the train tracks and the fucking train, he'd tried not to think about apologies, about handshakes, about a Corona each at the table in the yard back at 1327 or in Dom's garage with a new project sitting in the space where the Charger had been. He tried not to think about how that might've gone, or at least not about how he knew he wanted it to go, or about one late, half-drunk night over a year ago by then. He tried not to think about how he'd brushed against Dom while he was washing off plates at the sink one night, or about the look on Dom's face as he turned to him.

He still remembers the look on Dom's face like he knew what was going on but he didn't quite believe it. He still remembers the stupid-ass deer-in-headlights feeling he had himself, too, and how Dom put his hands on his shoulders and squeezed, rubbed, dug in with his fingers and the pads of his thumbs like he was practicing for the massage he'd probably be giving to Letty later on that night. His thumbs rested over Brian's collarbones, they strayed up to the sides of his neck, and then he had Brian's jaw cupped in his hands, warm palms rasping against Brian's two-day stubble. They looked at each other. They really _looked_ at each other, like they could really see each other, like they both knew Brian knew what Dom and his crew had been doing beyond a shadow of a doubt and it wasn't just a suspicion they all had, like Dom knew exactly who and what Brian was and risked having him be there anyway. But Brian stepped back and okay so maybe he didn't know what might've happened next if he hadn't, maybe Dom would've just told him he hoped he'd be good for Mia or maybe it would've been something else totally - maybe they would've done that thing they'd been dancing around since basically the second they'd met, tugging up each other's shirts, hands everywhere. And okay, maybe he and Mia weren't officially together but Brian knew it would've been a pretty shitty thing to do to her anyway and that was without even factoring Letty into it. Nothing happened; Dom chuckled and he stretched by him to the refrigerator to grab a beer and that was that. _Nothing happened_. By Miami, Brian had been trying to tell himself he hadn't wanted it to for over a year. He'd been trying to tell himself he didn't have a thing for Dominic Toretto.

He'd rehearsed how it'd go in his head a hundred times, but he'd never imagined this. Dom wasn't angry. Dom wasn't pleased. Dom wasn't anything at all except kinda the sarcastic side of neutral. That stung worse than Brian had ever thought it could.

"I don't want you to be anything," Brian said. He opened his car door. "I guess I'll see you at the end of next week."

He didn't wait for an answer. He got into the driver's side and he pulled out of the warehouse before they could say another word. Honestly, it seemed like the best thing to do.

And when he got back to his apartment sometime past midnight, when he locked the door behind him and he leaned back against it in the dark, he tried to tell himself he wasn't still thinking about Dom. When he stripped down to his underwear and climbed into bed, he tried to tell himself he wasn't thinking about Dom. When he stuck one hand down his boxers like a total fucking idiot, when he got himself off all rough and guilty and pissed at himself, he tried to tell himself he wasn't thinking about Dom.

The problem was, he didn't try very hard.

\---

The next day, Brian had work to do.

Sure, so his job isn't exactly anything fancy - he works on cars at Rome's place, does the real unglamorous shit most days like oil changes and fitting new rims and he mans the cash-out when needed and he doesn't care that it's the crappy stuff Rome doesn't want to do 'cause it's steady work and he's in good company. He sits at the front desk once he's scrubbed his hands clean unless Rome's working a big job and then he gets called into the back and they try not to mock each other into the middle of next century while they work. Mostly, it works just fine 'cause Brian's used to playing assistant by now. It's fine. He actually kinda likes it, maybe mostly 'cause these days Rome's not pissed at him anymore.

When he drove in and parked up out front that morning, he tried to pretend he didn't know he was being followed. When he went out sometime around one to grab a couple of subs for lunch for him and Rome, there was a car across the street and he pretended not to notice the driver had been there all day, like a total jackass, baking himself in the Miami heat. When he got back from the café down the street, he pretended not to notice the car had moved but not actually left, just shifted a few spaces down and turned around like maybe that helped with their cover somehow and the guy behind the wheel wasn't ten kinds of conspicuous all day long. But he was conspicuous. He was really damn conspicuous.

When Brian drove home after work, he stopped off at the store and he grabbed a few things along the way; he pretended he didn't know the same damn car was on his tail, like some second-rate, no-experience PI who had no idea who he was dealing with, except he really obviously did. He pulled into the parking lot outside his apartment and shook his head as he made his way up the steps outside, as he fumbled for his keys, 'cause he _knew_ he was still being followed, it wasn't like it was even the slightest bit subtle or like the guy didn't know he was former LAPD, at least. He jammed the stuff he'd grabbed from the store into the refrigerator and he turned on the AC to at least try to cool the place down a few degrees as the sun went down and then he hopped onto his laptop, sent a couple of encrypted emails like that was a thing most normal people did and then he settled down with a beer in front of the TV to wait.

Nothing happened. Nothing at all - no knocks on the door, no phone calls, _nothing_. In the end, he poured the rest of his beer down the sink and he went to bed, and he didn't think about Dom as he pushed his face into the pillow, as he rocked his hips against his hand, against the mattress. He didn't think about Dom as he gasped, as he groaned almost louder the damn AC, as he tugged hard at the headboard, as his muscles strained and he came over the sheets. At least he told himself he didn't.

It was the same the next day, except Brian was on the front desk instead of out back changing oil, chatting with a couple of regulars who came in to talk tires. He pulled together a quote for a guy who wanted to put a Veilside body kit on an S2000 and hey, they could do that, that was the kind of shit they did all day long. But all the time he was talking he could see the car outside out of the corner of his eye, lurking, waiting, getting under his skin the way only one guy had really ever done before. Rome's a good friend, maybe the only one left who knows him from Barstow and he knows it's a risk having him around, kinda, or being around him, if anyone asks the wrong question, and they piss each other off sometimes but Brian still figures that it's worth the risk. But Dom...Dom's something else. Right then it wasn't the possibility the wrong person would ask the wrong question that was the danger with Dom, and Brian knew it. It was the danger that Dom being around would make him do something stupid. After all, he'd been there before.

He was followed on foot at lunch that second day and he didn't turn around, he just didn't 'cause he knew he shouldn't; he walked on just like normal and he flirted with the girl behind the counter at the deli like he did every day and he brought Rome back a slice of the pie he'd been bitching about all day since coffee that morning. He ignored the guy in the sunglasses and ball cap loitering past the alley six doors over, like he was studying guitars in the music store window and not waiting for him to come out with his sandwiches. He went back to work and handed over Rome's lunch with a smile like this shit didn't bother him at all, like there was nothing wrong, like he was taking it in stride, and four hours later he drove home, took a circuitous route, not like he was shooting to lose his tail but just 'cause he felt like the drive somehow. He knew a few places he could really put his foot on the gas and by the time he got home and pulled up in the parking lot of his sedate little apartment building - Rome teases him it looks like a damn retirement community and he's kinda right about that, all the rules about kids in the communal pool and what you can put on the lawn - he was just starting to come down off of the adrenaline rush.

He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and he settled down with his laptop on the couch. He read a few emails, replied to a few emails, logged into the bodyshop's account and fixed up some accounting just so Rome wouldn't gripe when the invoices came in. Then he settled down to wait.

Nothing happened. Nothing at all. In the end, he finished his beer and he went to bed, and he didn't think of Dom when he dug his heels into the bed and pushed up into his hand. He didn't think about Dom as he squeezed his balls and pressed his fingertips against his perineum, when he bit off a moan as he came in hitching bursts over his stomach. He didn't think of Dom at all. At least, he told himself he didn't.

It was the same the next day and the day after that, being followed, the following wearing on him, getting to him though he tried to act like he didn't, getting under his skin and making him cranky when Rome tried crack jokes in the shop, when he got stuck in traffic, when the girl in the deli tried to flirt with him. By the fifth day, he really didn't feel a whole lot like flirting; the girl, and he could've sworn her nametag changed so often she must've just pulled it out of a bag every morning, frowned at him like she wondered what was on his mind, but there was no good way to say what the problem was, not really, so he just flashed her a smile and went with a kinda lame _sometimes work sucks, y'know?_ She nodded and gave him extra pickle without him having to ask. They left it at that.

He went home via the store and picked up a miserable-looking frozen pizza that he baked in the oven and forgot about till it was nearly burned, then ate like culinary penance in front of the TV with a beer. He answered emails from the bodyshop account and tried not to get mozzarella like fricking lava all over the laptop keyboard as he did so. And then he settled down to another evening of shitty television and irritable waiting.

"It's open," he called, ten minutes later when the knock on the front door finally, _finally_ came, because he'd been leaving the door open till he went to bed for the past four nights, like a total jackass. The door swung open and he told himself not to stare at it as his stomach lurched, maybe excitement, maybe more like dread 'cause who the hell knew who it might be, or hell, maybe it was just the revenge of the crappy frozen pizza. Except in walked Dominic Toretto, thankfully, 'cause Brian would've been pretty pissed had it been anyone else, and he kicked the door closed behind him with the heel of one heavy black boot. "There's beer in the refrigerator," he said, with a second's glance in his direction, maybe even sounding casual even if he didn't feel it. "Go ahead and help yourself."

Dom looked at him for a moment, still over by the door, like he wasn't sure if he should even be there or not, like he wasn't sure if he wanted a beer or to walk right back out the way he'd come, like he wasn't sure if he wanted a beer or to wrap his hands around Brian's throat and squeeze till the problem resolved itself. But then he went to the refrigerator and he grabbed a beer and he popped off the cap on the edge of the counter like the place wasn't a rental and the scratches wouldn't be coming out of Brian's damn security deposit, then he wandered over to the couch and took a seat there right by Brian, Corona in hand. Taking all the other, less favorable options into account, Brian guessed that was for the best.

"Y'know, you really need to work on your surveillance technique," Brian said, not looking up from the TV. It was some kind of shitty buddy cop movie from sometime back in the 80s, one he figured he'd seen a couple of times already, maybe at the movies, maybe on VHS or late-night TV 'cause it was the sort of thing that was always on, with the cusswords edited out like people didn't know _fudge_ from _fuck_.

"I wasn't exactly going for stealth," Dom replied, though really all that left Brian with was assuming he'd been pissing him off on purpose, and he guessed he kinda deserved that and then again he kinda didn't. Dom gestured at the TV. "So, accurate?"

Brian snorted. "Yeah, all cops run around cracking wise and shooting people all day long," he said. "Jesus Christ, I know I did." He gave Dom a quick sideways glance. "So what are you doing here, Dom? You run out of beer? Did your no-tell motel's AC crap out on you?"

Dom shrugged. "I thought we'd better get our stories straight, in case someone asks how we know each other."

Brian looked away from the TV. He turned, abruptly, tucked one leg up on the couch cushions and slung one arm over the back of it and he turned to him, his eyes narrowing.

"What's to get straight?" he asked. "You had to run. You said it yourself, there was no way you were going back to jail. And I wasn't gonna let the FBI shoot you."

"So you let me go. Just like that."

"Well, yeah."

Dom took a sip of his beer, watching him. Brian frowned, feeling ten times more agitated than Dom looked.

"Why did you do that?" Dom asked.

"You really think that's at the top of anyone's list when it comes to running down histories?"

Dom shrugged hugely. "Humor me," he said.

Brian narrowed his eyes. He took a sip of his beer, his fingers slipping on the wet neck of it 'cause he'd left it too damn long and it wasn't exactly like the AC was enough to turn the place into a walk-in refrigerator. Then he sighed. He shook his head, he turned back to the TV and he dropped his head down heavily onto the back of the couch. He sprawled, exasperated, pretty damn close to defeated.

"You know why, Dom," he said. "Screw you, you _know_ why."

Dom didn't reply. Dom just drank, so Brian drank; he dragged himself up from the couch and he grabbed a couple more beers from the refrigerator, passed one to Dom and sat back down and they drank in silence and it was dumb and the movie was stupid and Brian was tired and kinda pissed off though even now he couldn't really explain exactly why that was. Maybe it was the fact Dom hadn't needed to ask again so maybe he really _did_ know, or maybe it'd dawned on him right then for the first time, maybe maybe fucking maybe. And Brian was stuck in a place between a) pissy that Dom didn't say a word about it so it just sat there with them like the goddamn elephant in the room, and b) kinda relieved that he didn't have to try to put what was in his head and under his skin when he thought about Dom into words. 

So, they sat there in strained silence, Dom way too close to Brian on the couch considering how much space there was left over but Brian was too damn stubborn to move. Eventually, once the movie was over and the credits were rolling, he just zapped off the TV with the remote that'd somehow gotten tucked under his thigh and abandoned what was left of his fourth beer, maybe fifth beer, maybe sixth beer on the coffee table. He stood himself up.

"Look, not that this wasn't super fun, Dom, but I've got work in the morning," Brian said, and Dom looked up at him from the couch with his latest Corona resting on his knee. Brian watched him take a sip and then brush at the damp patch the bottle left behind on his jeans. Then he stood. He put his bottle on the table with the other empties and he stood and he looked at Brian. He stepped closer, so close the AC would've had its work cut out making it so Brian couldn't feel the heat of Dom's body right there in front of him. 

For a second, it looked like there was something Dom wanted to say. It looked like maybe there was something he wanted to do, like they were both looking back to the same time back in the kitchen at Dom's place in LA when they couldn't've done what they wanted to do but that didn't mean they didn't want it. Brian set his jaw, his hands on his hips. Dom clenched and unclenched his fists. Brian swallowed. But then Dom just shook his head and he smiled to himself as he turned to walk away.

Brian went to bed and he didn't think about Dom as he took off his clothes. He didn't think about the thing they maybe both still wanted, how it could've gone if maybe one of them hadn't been a stubborn ass or maybe there was just too much water under the bridge. He didn't think about the heat of Dom's skin or the way Dom looked at him like he wanted to forgive him or maybe he just _wanted him_ , who knew.

He didn't think about Dom. Except when it came down to it he really, really did.

\---

The next day, Dom was still following him, but after work there was no knock on the door. The next day, he was _still_ following him, like he had nowhere else to be at all and nothing else to do. The day after that, Brian had had enough.

When he got to work, Brian read through the job sheet for the day while he wondered to himself if maybe he'd been wrong - maybe it wasn't Dom out there in the car this time and he'd got another tail, except that was fucking stupid and he was a fucking lunatic for even thinking it. He knew Dom's shape and size and the way he moved and he knew it was him, he _knew_ it, beyond a shadow of a doubt. He didn't need to look him in the eye to know it was him at all.

Still, the thought lingered all day as he worked, still kinda sullen after the previous night, as he answered the phone, as he helped Rome out in back, over lunch, the works. He was half pissed off and half resigned and totally worn out and when he left for the night, followed just like he'd been for close to a week, he pulled up to the curb between a cheap-ass grocery store and a Cuban restaurant and he killed the engine 'cause really, enough was enough. The car following him stopped, too, and he wasn't sure if he'd hoped it'd keep on going or whether confrontation was what he wanted. He rested his forehead down and he gripped the wheel and he waited, maybe a minute, maybe two, wondering what the hell he was planning to do except there really wasn't a plan at all. Then he got out of the car and he looked at Dom's crappy borrowed-rented-stolen-who-knew-what old Volvo and he gestured, exasperated, arms spread wide.

It was Dom he saw through the windshield. It was definitely Dom. And Definitely Dom pulled away and he drove away, drove right past him and left him standing there and Brian gave him the finger as he went and even that didn't feel as satisfying as he'd thought it would, not that he'd been thinking a whole lot. He kicked the Skyline's nearest available rear tire and hit the roof with the heels of his hands like somehow that could make him less frustrated instead of more, at his wit's fucking end, then he went into the store and he bought himself another shitty frozen pizza for dinner, grabbed a pack of beers and then drove home. He ate half of the pizza, the crusts so damn brittle it felt like they were raking up his gums, and the beer did nothing to help his mood. Then he just gave the fuck up and he turned off the shitty movie on TV and he went to bed. He hadn't left the door unlocked. He really hadn't seen the point in it 'cause there was no way Dom was coming. Hell, if he had, he was pretty convinced he'd've thrown him back out he was so vaguely, intangibly pissed off with him. Jesus Christ, Dom _knew_ what the problem was, Dom had to know how shitty it was that he was even there, even without the stalker bullshit.

He stripped off his clothes in the bedroom, in the half-light shining in from the bathroom 'cause the bedroom bulb had blown sometime before Dom unexpected Miami arrival and he'd forgotten to pick up a new one every single day since. He pulled off his clothes and he tossed them onto the dresser and he sat himself down on the end of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands and ran his hands over his hair, over his face, rubbed at the stubble at his jaw, wondering what the fuck he was even doing, how he'd ever thought that this could work out, let alone work out well. He should've called the whole thing off the second he'd realized Dom was involved but there they were, something like three days to go before _go_ , and Dom was still in the game. Dom was still _playing_ games. Dom was playing games with _him_.

Brian dropped down onto the bed right where he sat, back on the mattress and feet still on the floor, one hand still over his face. He lay there, irritated, irritable, sick of this shit, halfway to thinking maybe he should've just let Dom go back to Lompoc after all because what the fuck was all of this about? He ran his free hand down over his abdomen, thinking maybe Dom being back inside would've been for the best, except he knew exactly how much bullshit that really was and how he didn't believe a word of it. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroked, cursed under his breath, thinking how maybe meeting Dominic Toretto was the worst thing he'd ever done in his whole life because what had Dom ever done for him? He'd eased him right into halfway fucking up his whole career and then fucked off across the border and left him there to face the music. Except Brian knew staying had been his own stupid choice. He could've got into the car along with him. He could've driven the damn car himself or he could've left at any point after that. Maybe he would've even gotten to Dom before anyone realized he was gone. Maybe he wouldn't've led them straight to him.

He stroked himself till he was hard, still pissed at himself, still pissed in general, but then he stopped, sighed, rested both arms over his face and let his dick rest against his belly and fuck, this was all so fucked up. He rubbed his face with both hands then he ran one of them back down again, rubbed the heel of it over the coarse hair that led down from his navel, rubbed right down by the base of his cock. He didn't even really feel like doing it, except he did because nothing else seemed to take the edge off of all the bullshit with Dom except imagining Dom's hands, imagining Dom's mouth, imagining pushing Dom down against the bed and how Dom would laugh the way he does when he's surprised but the good kind, pleased-surprised. He wrapped his hand around himself and he stroked, squeezed at the head, spread pre-come out thinly over the tip with his thumb and made his back arch almost painfully, the dumb position he was in, feet still flat to the floor. 

Then Dom coughed. Brian's eyes blinked open. Brian quickly pushed himself back up to seated and there Dom was, leaning against the frame of the bathroom doorway with his arms crossed casually across his chest, silhouetted by the crappy stark white bathroom light so Brian could barely see him, except it was definitely him. He knew the shape of him, the size of him. It was him. After all, of the two of them, Dom was the one with the definite identity.

There were a million goddamn things Brian could've said, from _what the fuck are you doing here?_ through _enjoying the view, Dom?_ right on up to _so you thought you'd add unlawful entry to your rap sheet, huh?_ He said nothing, not a single thing, he just stood up and he frowned and bare skin and erection be damned, he pushed Dom, right in the center of his chest, shoved him so hard he stumbled back into the bathroom and almost tripped over the side of the tub and then Dom pushed him back, made him step back so damn far his knees hit the bed and he fell back down onto it. But he pushed himself back up and he swung, his fist connected jarringly with Dom's jaw and Dom grunted, Dom shoved him again, Dom got hold of Brian's biceps and he fucking hauled him up against the nearest wall, the damn ineffective bedroom light switch pushed up against the back of one of Brian's shoulders but he was too pissed off to care. If he was too pissed off to care he was fighting in his bedroom naked then really, fuck the light switch.

Dom looked at him, frowning at him, almost scowling, and Brian thought maybe he'd hit him then, get him back for the fist to the face he'd just landed, or maybe he do something else and Brian was intrigued to see what it might be so he didn't bother to struggle even though his pulse was racing and every fiber of him told him to fight. But Dom didn't hit him. He _really_ didn't hit him. Dom made a sort of frustrated, desperate sound and he kissed him, fucking mashed their faces together, mouth to mouth, all teeth and tongue and a groan he couldn't not make, harder than Brian had imagined it'd be but he guessed that made sense if nothing else about it did. Then one of Dom's hands was around Brian's cock and fuck, _fuck_ , he got a handful of the back of Dom's shirt and hauled him closer, pulled him right up against him, the nails of his other hand raking hard over the back of Dom's neck. They ground against each other, Brian's bare skin against Dom's clothes and Dom getting hard against him inside his jeans as they kissed the breath right out of each other.

Dom pulled back. Dom reeled back. Dom was pretty close to breathless, flushed, looking at him from maybe a yard away like he was wondering - just like Brian was - what the fuck had just happened. And God, the look on Dom's face, like he was eating him alive with his eyes, Brian couldn't stand it, he could almost _feel_ it, on his skin, over his collarbones, his hips, the stupid hard length of his dick because he somehow he was even more turned on then than he had been before.

He guesses maybe he expected Dom to leave. He guesses he expected Dom to curse and turn around and storm the fuck out and pretend like none of it had ever happened because that would've been par for the damn course by that point, hardheaded as he was. But Dom looked at him, Dom took a deep breath and then he pulled off his shirt and he tossed it to the floor and jeez, it was like a red rag to a bull. Brian was over there in a second, in two long strides, pushing Dom back, pushing him down. Dom sat; Brian pushed him onto his back, feet on the floor just the way he'd been himself moments before. He fumbled at Dom's belt, at the zipper of his jeans, pressed his hand down over the front of Dom's underwear inside and made him hiss in a breath. Dom arched his back, lifted his hips, and Brian tugged down, pulled Dom's underwear down over his hips along with his jeans and Jesus, looking at him, jeans around his knees, cock huge and hard, he couldn't help himself, he wrapped one hand around Dom's cock and ducked down to suck hard at the head of it. He'd thought about it for so long that he knew exactly what to do.

Dom fucking growled. Dom pulled himself up and pushed Brian back. Dom pushed him _down_ , jeez, on his back on the floor like that was even close to sane, pushed Brian's thighs out wide and went down on his knees between them. He leaned down. He ran his hands over Brian's abdomen and hooked his thumbs under his cock and he leaned down lower, he took the tip of his cock right into his mouth and he stroked him and he sucked him and Brian fucking writhed, hit his head on the tiled floor but it wasn't like he cared, just rocked his hips up until Dom pressed them back down hard with both hands so he couldn't move. Dom pulled back, left Brian's dick wet in the over-warm air the AC had barely touched and he stroked him, did it harder, almost _too_ hard, made Brian press down with his heels and strain through his thighs and squeeze his eyes shut because fuck, he was reeling, he was wound up tight, it was _Dom_ , fuck, it was Dom's hands on him just the way he'd wanted since pretty much the second they'd met. He came all over his own stomach with a strangled noise somewhere down in his throat and he shuddered as he took in a breath, felt himself pulse again, felt the hot splash of come against his skin, the flush of goddamn release that flooded through him.

He thought maybe that was that, if he thought anything at all, thought maybe Dom would head back out the way he'd come, but that _wasn't_ that. Dom moved. Dom knelt between Brian's thighs and ran his fingers over Brian's stomach, through the mess of sweat and come collected there, and Brian opened his eyes to watch him. He pushed himself up on his forearms with a frown and watched him, watched him stroke Brian's come over the length of his own cock and oh God, Brian's stomach tightened as he did it. Brian spread his thighs out wider because he was pretty sure what Dom had in mind even though it was fucking ridiculous whichever way he looked at it. He was pretty sure what Dom was going to do and fuck, maybe he should've stopped him, but screw that. He didn't want to.

Dom pushed up one of Brian's legs, caught his calf over his shoulder, and in his stupid post-orgasmic sprawl that was totally fine. Dom ran his slick fingers down between Brian's cheeks, rubbed against his hole, and that was fine, that was totally fine, that was more than fine. But then Dom looked at him, looked him in the eye, his face flushed, his chest flushed, and he shifted over him. Dom pushed the head of his cock up between Brian's cheeks and Dom was looking at him, Dom's eyes were on his as he pushed against him, as he pushed _into_ him, as the two of them groaned with it because Jesus, Brian couldn't remember the last time he'd done this, he was still tight even half-relaxed the way he was, and Dom was big, maybe not hung like some kind of a gigantic superhuman porn star but _thick_ , and he was in him, the hot length of him opening him up, pushing inside him. It hurt but Brian didn't care. He clung to Dom's biceps and Dom's hands pressed to the tiled floor and Brian pulled his legs up, cinched them in tight around Dom's waist, crossed at the ankle. He didn't care if it hurt because that didn't mean it didn't feel good, too. He didn't care if it hurt because that didn't mean he didn't want it.

They did it like that, in short, sharp thrusts on Brian's rented bedroom floor, the tiles getting slick with sweat and the toes of Dom's boots somehow just about finding traction against them. Brian's arms spread wide over the tiles and he pushed to meet Dom's thrusts, skin on skin, arching, straining, Dom's rhythm erratic, barely a rhythm at all. It didn't feel like it could last and it didn't, not much longer than Brian had lasted, but Brian guesses it didn't need to 'cause when Dom rested his forehead down against Brian's shoulder and shuddered and groaned down low and bucked against him, when he came in him, no fucking condom, pulsing inside him, just like that, it was about all Brian could've taken. He hurt. He was breathless. He was a hair's breadth from fucking trembling. And Dom looked at him, breathless, wide-eyed like he was right there with him, like he didn't have a clue what the hell had just happened.

He pulled back. He pulled out. He knelt there, he sagged there on his knees, his jeans still down around his thighs, then he shoved himself back against the nearest wall. He sat there, leaning against it, rested his head back against it, his forearms on his knees, and they looked at each other as they caught their breath, but only for a minute, less than two. He pulled himself up after that and Brian watched him, saw the effort it took, how his muscles jumped. Brian watched him rock back up to his feet and almost fall right back down with it, watched him fumble his way back into his jeans and pull on his shirt over his sweat-slick skin, clinging, not sitting right at all. Dom left him there without a word. Brian let him go. He lay there, aching, spent, a fucking mess of Dom's come and his own under the rumbling AC, and he let him go.

When he went to bed, he didn't have to think about Dom. He could still smell him. He could still _feel_ him.

And in the morning, it turned out Dom had quit following him. Brian wasn't sure he could persuade himself that was a victory.

\---

Two days later, the job went south. Of course, at least from Brian's point of view, that was kinda the plan all along.

"You need to get out of here, Dom," Brian told him, yelling from the window of one of four identical black Nissans speeding down the freeway sometime after dark. It was a miracle either of them could hear each other for the wind whipping by. It hurt his throat he was shouting so damn loud.

"Why would I want to do that, Brian?" Dom yelled back.

"Just trust me, okay?"

Dom winced at that. Dom winced and glanced at him then looked back at the road and the expression on his face said the last thing on earth he wanted to do was trust him, and for a second Brian almost thought he was just going to keep on driving. He was almost thought Dom was going to go on with the plan the way it'd been explained to them, the way they'd gone over so many times earlier that day back in the warehouse on the waterfront just outside of town, so many times that Brian was pretty sure he was never going to get it back out of his head even though he'd spent most of the time trying not to look in Dom's direction. He still had bruises on his hips like the shape of Dom's fingertips and Dom's jaw was fricking purple where Brian's fist had connected. He couldn't look him in the eye. If he had, he wasn't sure what he'd've felt the strongest: the urge to bend Dom straight over the hood of his Skyline, jerk down his jeans and have him right there, or to bruise the other side of his jaw with his fist.

The thing was, according to the plan, four cars wasn't a _necessity_ for the job to work. It was just back-up in case something got screwed up along the way, and goddamnit, Dom needed to be as far away from that whole heap of bullshit as humanly possible. Problem was, Brian knows how stubborn Dom can be. He hated that he hadn't come up with a better plan than yelling from a car window and hoping for the best, but it was what it was. He had to trust Dom wasn't a total jackass when it came to knowing who it was he could count on. Right then, Brian was it and Dom was pissed at him; he didn't have a whole lot of hope.

But, in the end, Dom waved off. He gave Brian one last hard look through their open windows and then he peeled away back the way they'd come and twenty minutes later, it was all over. The DEA had Jameson and his lovely lady contact in custody back over in the warehouse, they had the cartel truck full of drugs, they had Francis and Cortez...and they had Brian. Kinda. Not really. The agent in charge knew the score because Brian's handler had been in touch; she let him go and they all pretended like he'd never been there at all.

"You called the cops," Dom said, when Brian had found the door unlocked and walked into his apartment. He figured the only person it could be was Dom, not like that made any sense because maybe the cartel had found out exactly who'd tried to steal from them, or the woman's bosses had worked out who'd double-crossed them, except it turned out he was right anyway.

"I don't remember inviting you in," Brian replied, ditching his jacket over the back of a chair, and Dom stood, pushed himself up off of the couch with so much energy that it made Brian frown at him. To anyone else but Brian, maybe Dom would've been intimidating.

"You were in it from the start," Dom said. "You're still a cop."

"C'mon, Dom," Brian replied, crossing his arms over his chest once he'd dumped his keys out on the table by the door. He leaned back against it, almost too tired to be belligerent about it. "Don't tell me you didn't know that."

Dom laughed, suddenly, kinda bitterly. "Yeah, I guess I always knew that," he said. "You were always too good to be true."

Brian shrugged. "I like to think I'm pretty much just good enough."

"And you always were a cocky son of a bitch," Dom said, smiling just around the edges.

He expected Dom to leave after that, for him to nudge him away from the door and go back outside to his shitty electric blue Supra and race his way out of town and back down to Mexico, however it was that he'd gotten across the border in the first place, maybe he'd ridden a fucking unicorn for all Brian knew. Then again, to be totally fair, he'd never expected Dom to be there at all, he'd expected him to've split after the job got so screwed up, without checking the facts and assuming the worst and okay, so it seemed like Dom _had_ assumed the worst, but at least he hadn't split. He'd been expecting him to split since the start, but he hadn't. Except Brian couldn't help but think it might've been better if he had.

"Look, if you stay in town, the cartel's gonna come looking for you," Brian said. "You should get away from Miami. As far away as you can."

Dom frowned at him. "Is that what you're gonna do?" he asked.

"I can't."

"Then why should I?"

Brian huffed out a breath. "Jesus, Dom, you're a piece of work," he said, and he threw up his hands and he stalked away into the adjoining kitchen just behind the counter, no real walls so he guesses it wasn't like he even really walked out of the room . He pulled open the refrigerator and he grabbed a beer and he fished for his bottle opener but screw that, he popped the cap off of it on the edge of the counter right where Dom's bottle had left a scratch a few nights before. "You'll have a target on your back if you stay."

"I always have a target on my back," Dom said. And jeez, he'd sneaked up on him. He was right behind him, and Dom's hands settled hot at Brian's hips and Brian sighed, put his bottle down on the counter, leaned on the edge of it and hung his head because jeez, _Jesus_ , Dom had his hands on his hips. Dom stepped closer. Dom stepped even closer. Dom stepped right up against him and he ran one hand the whole fricking length of Brian's spine, right from the nape of his neck to the waistband of his jeans, settling over the denim to rub with one thumb at his tailbone and Brian shivered. Brian fricking shuddered and it wasn't because of his shitty AC. He closed his eyes. He clenched his jaw.

"What are you doing, Dom?" he asked.

"You don't think that's kinda clear?" Dom replied, and he tucked his hands in underneath the hem of Brian's beat-up old t-shirt and settled them at his waist, just above the line of his belt. Shit, they were warm. The pads of his fingers were callused and Dom pressed firmly, made Brian take an unsteady breath.

"It's not even close to clear," Brian said. "What are you doing, Dom?"

Dom wrapped his arms around Brian's waist then, from behind. He rested his forehead against the back of one of Brian's shoulders and Brian turned in his arms, got Dom's head in his hands and made him look at him, stupid as it was.

"I wasn't wrong about you," Dom said, and Brian was pretty sure what he meant, at least he thought he was. He thought he meant back in LA, that weird trust he'd had that bordered on suspicion that all ran headlong into dumb attraction or maybe something more, not that Brian had even thought it, let alone said the words out loud. Nope, Dom had never been wrong about him.

"No, you never were," Brian replied. 

Dom smiled, at least half the way.

"You're kind of an asshole, O'Conner," he said, and Brian knew his last name was on purpose. Spilner. O'Conner. Who the fuck knew who Brian was, but Dom had never lied. 

Brian's hands settled at Dom's shoulders. He smiled, at least half the way.

"Yeah, I kinda am," he said. "But by my count I've saved your butt twice now."

Dom laughed, like agreement, like acknowledgement, like some kind of a concession. When Dom kissed him, he was pretty much still laughing.

They had beers on the couch after that, ordered in pizza 'cause Brian had had enough of the frozen kind to last the rest of his lifetime, and they talked, about where Dom had been, about what he'd been doing. Three beers in, Dom shoved the bottles away and straddled Brian's thighs right there on the couch and when Brian dragged him into a kiss, they both tasted of Corona and they didn't care how loud the couch creaked. They missed the rest of the movie. Brian figures neither one of them cared.

They stripped each other once they got into the bedroom. It slowed the whole thing down 'cause doing it themselves would've been ten times easier, but they tugged at each other's shirts, Dom got Brian's caught under his chin and snickered at him, pushed him up against the nearest wall and held him by it, pressed his mouth to his chest, sucked, bit, while Brian mock-protested. When they were finally naked, they hit the bed and they stroked each other, got their hands on each other, teased each other, maybe not as far as they could've 'cause the narrow escape from the law was still fresh, kinda raw, still there underneath it all. But the way Dom looked at him, Brian knew he got it. He hadn't done it for his job. He hadn't done it because he'd had to, or because he'd been ordered to. He'd done it because ten seconds after they'd met, he'd've done anything for him.

Brian had Dom on his knees after that, Dom complaining the whole time without meaning a word of it because the whole time he was pushing back against him, meeting Brian's thrusts with a roll of his hips and an arch of his back. There was a whole lot of lube that time, still no condoms because what was the point considering the time before, Brian pushing into Dom with his hands at his hips, moving over his back while Dom glanced at him over his shoulder and Jesus, that was hot, the grin on Dom's flushed face while Brian fucked him. And twenty seconds after he'd come in him, his hips jerking like they'd got some kind of arrhythmic mind of their own, Dom pushed him down on his back. Twenty seconds after that, Dom was in him, balls-deep and still smiling.

"I think I'm gonna stick around," Dom said, pushed up on his hands, Brian's legs around his waist. "Don't ask me to leave again."

Maybe it would've been for the best, but somehow Brian had a feeling he wouldn't ask anyway. He hasn't. Dom's stayed.

The thing is, if Dom stays, Brian knows what he's going to have to do, sooner or later; the thing is, he's pretty sure he won't regret it.

He's already given up everything once before, even if it turned out he got a do-over. He can do it again. This time, it'll be final.

\---

The first thing you need to know about Brian is his name isn't Brian O'Conner. Except it is. But it kinda isn't.

He's had a lot of names over the past few years, and he feels like Brian O'Conner's just another one of them because, in a way, it kinda is. He's older than he looks and older than his driver's license says he is, than his official file says he is, because his file is pretty much just so much made-up bullshit built up on a thin foundation of reality. It's 90% a figment of his handler's imagination and 10% mash-mixed half-truths because that's the way it's got to be to keep him safe and keep Brian O'Conner right there, in play, in the game, where they need him. There are bigger fish to fry than Jameson and cartel dope. One day they'll get to Jameson's boss's boss and they'll figure out who's involved and who's not, who's on their side and who's not, law enforcement and businessmen and politicians. Brian tells himself it'll all have been worth it, except it's been years now and he's gotten close to nowhere. He's starting to think they're chasing ghosts. He's starting to think it's not worth losing himself along the way. God knows it's not worth losing Dom; he's already proved that once.

"So, who are you really?" Dom asks now, three weeks later. He's on the couch barefoot and bare-chested in his jeans like he owns the place and it's not Brian's rental. He's got Brian's license in his hand, trapped between two fingers, and right then Brian knows he's not even sure anymore.

"I don't know," he says. "Why don't you tell me?"

If Dom asked, if he _really_ asked, he'd tell him everything, what he's done and what he's doing. Sometimes he hopes Dom will ask, sometimes he hopes he won't, but the fact is always that he'd tell him if he did because he's sick to death of secrets.

Dom tosses the license onto the table. Dom looks at him, Dom tucks his fingers into the waist of Brian's jeans and tugs to make him smile and he _looks_ at him.

"You're Brian O'Conner," Dom says, and the way he says it's almost like it means something.

Sometimes _Brian O'Conner_ feels more like an alias. But the thing is, when Dom says his name, it almost sounds real; Brian's pretty sure there's not much he wouldn't give to make that a reality.

Dom can't stay forever and they both know it. But when he leaves, they'll leave together.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _A Lover's Discourse: Fragments_ by Roland Barthes. The full quote is: 
> 
>  
> 
> _You see the first thing we love is a scene. For love at first sight requires the very sign of its suddenness; and of all things, it is the scene which seems to be seen best for the first time: a curtain parts and what had not yet ever been seen is devoured by the eyes: the scene consecrates the object I am going to love._


End file.
